Yelena

She was different.

The world was different.

Maybe ‘different’ wasn’t the right word. But as she sat alone, as she often did, munching on a sheath of bread in the Caer Argent courtyard, she couldn’t help but let her stare linger on the forms of the newbloods at practice honing their skills with real blades, seeing the sparks clash and dissipate into the world of snow and grey that surrounded them.

Slowly, they had each come to see her as everyone else had: an outsider amidst the rest of the hybrids. Her Firvak blood was just as mixed as theirs, and yet their stares of derision in her direction told her not even to bother looking for a sparring partner outside of her own squad these days. To them, she was nothing more than the monster Virtir had told them she was.

Even she was beginning to believe it.

For as she looked at the sparring warriors, she felt a sense of precision creep in from the sides of her vision. She couldn’t articulate the exact feeling, but she knew that it came from deep within her – knowledge that she could never have known, that was waiting for her to unlock, if her look only lingered for just a moment on nothing more than the dancing shadows that played out their routines before her.

The first time, it was a Tigran she’d been looking at. Just nonchalantly staring at his tail that twirled between his every step.

Then it happened. The foreign letters blazed into life before her:

Appraisal: Success

Tigran: Unleveled

RES: NULL

WK: PYRO

Her eyes would shoot away from anyone when the vile words coated in onyx appeared next to them. She would fly to her feet, provoking their startled stares, before realizing that there was nothing next to them at all in reality. The words were for her alone.

Appraisal: Success

Tilonxeel: Unleveled

RES: ERTH

WK: PYRO, BLDG

She shook her head, made her excuses, ran away to her room – and even then the letters followed here, torturing her with floating words that meant nothing.

Nothing, that is, until she read Lord Jael’s book again.

Her library visits had become so frequent that even Agathae had lowered herself to visiting the place of learning in order to get her to come out more often. She filled her head with promises of dances with pretty newbloods, or drinks by the fireside of the Great Hall and sojourns in one of the Twelve Towns of the North where a festival was being held – things that would have sparked the curiosity of any young girl who lived as secluded a life as they did in the monastery.

Not so with Yelena. Recently, everything had become distilled into one single focus: her new abilities, and discovery of what they meant. She knew she bore the signs of The Glance, and yet, through incessant scratching under her eyes, she confirmed that the sign of possession was simply not on her.

She couldn’t be one of them. As Azran had said, the Prophet would know. It would cast her out in a public Denouncement if it knew her abilities were the result of unholy magicks.

She shuddered at the thought: Denouncement. The public accusation of one member of the Argents by either the Prophet herself or one of the monastery’s own. Anyone, theoretically, could call for such public condemnation. Not even the Proctor could prevent it – the Denouncement, or the result. She remembered only one such example in her lifetime – one local girl from one of the Twelve Towns had found the monastery, ragged and beaten, and cried out for safe harbor. When it was revealed that she had the marks of the Glance upon her skin, however, she was brought before the assembly in the Great Hall, shamed before all its members, and then executed in the courtyard. The law of Argent left no room for doubt, or compromise: all Glancers were a threat to the world.

Still, Yelena remembered well the tears that she’d felt form at the corners of her eyes as she watched the girl burn. Even with Dimedrious trying to shield her from the sight, still she couldn’t resist peeking under his massive cloak as the girl had cried out in pain, and hopelessness. And though Yelena knew the Argent’s law was undeniable, still there was a piece of her that had urged the girl to use her magic. To fly. To leap. To survive.

She shook such heretical thoughts from her head just as soon as they formed and focused instead on toiling through tome after tome on Everloft lore, learning new secrets that only now made sense to her.

The eyes of an Everloftian were special – equipped with a sight that could bore into their enemies and immediately reveal important information for the warrior: things like weaknesses that could be exploited, resistances to avoid, and the relative combat prowess of the opponent. At a certain point, Jael wrote, such sight could be improved and reveal even more to the user. She consumed these words like the most precious food, fueling nothing but her increasing curiosity, and sense of dread.

Her hands traced the name of the ability: Appraisal.

She bowed her head as she absorbed the magnitude of the revelation.

"By Amarata," she whispered in the confines of the library. "What am I?"

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

----------------------------------------

When she wasn’t training or studying, she devoted herself to the veneration of those who came before her.

In her first years as an acolyte of Caer Argent, she had often admired the imposing statues in the Hall of Proctors – the monastery’s oldest, and most impressive, chamber. Cracked depictions of each Proctor lined the entire room, flanked by stain glass windows that told the story of the monastery’s founding formation atop Mount Vermai in the days after Jael’s First Dive.

Recently, Yelena decided that increasing her devotion to both Amarata and her representatives on this earth was the best means she had of warding herself against the evil that dwelled within her being. She bore corruption – even without the marks of evil, that was certain. But, she reasoned, Amarata must have given her such a trial as a test of faith. She refused to let herself be overcome by her disease. She refused to let it fester in her mind and dim the light of her devotion to the Goddess and the teachings of her first servant, Jael.

So on this particular morning, she had made a point of sequestering herself within the great chamber as soon as the light of the sun hit the snow filled horizon. She tied her hair back in a ponytail and tightened the knot, brushing her bangs out her face and clasping her hands together in a silent prayer to the statue she had arrived at – a humanoid with a crow’s face wearing a flowing dress robe. This was Proctor Azran – the current guardian of the monastery, his sharp Jilae eyes glimmering at her even in stone form.

Then her attention was suddenly diverted, as it often was during such moments of quiet meditation, to the largest figures in the chamber of Proctors. She approached them cautiously, as though the idols might spring into life at any given moment. They were a pair whose names everyone knew – one human, and one lizardman (or Yok’ra, in marsh-tongue). The lizardman towered over his companion – his long-arched head reaching the very apex of the chamber’s far ceiling, and his vacant eyes were inlaid with sparkling rubies over which a single black slit had been painted. At times, Yelena really did feel like he was watching her.

"Miron the Bulwark," she breathed. "To our first Guardian, survivor of the first Great Delve, we give thanks and our solemn pledge: that with every journey, there is a return."

She then shifted her gaze towards the human form next to the great lizard, his face a mess of wrinkles and scars, but still smiling triumphantly. It was as though he was a picture of endurance in the face of eternal suffering that mortals were doomed to in their short existence on this earth. The statue depicted him in battle stance, ready to unveil his twinkling moonstone broadsword that the legends said was carved from the very same celestial body that hung over Averix during the night.

"Jael the Azure," Yelena whispered in the dark. "To you we offer our supplication and eternal thanks. And our solemn remembrance: in our battles we shall have victory. In our deaths, we shall make our sacrifice."

She let her hands drop, and breathed a deep sigh before she picked up her sword again.

"Lord Jael," she muttered in desperation. "What should I do? What would you do?"

Sudden movement from behind her interrupted Yelana’s silent vigil. But before she even tilted her head her assailant was upon her.

"I AM JAEL THE GREAT AND POWERFUL!" The voice of her attacker said as her hairy arms forced themselves round Yelena’s neck. "FEAR ME AND TREMBLE!"

"Agathae…" Yelena sighed, then giggled as her cat-girl squad-mate’s fur ticked her cheeks. "Okay, okay!" she wailed. "I surrender already!"

"Mercy is for the weak," Agathae purred in her ear. She then bit it with force, so that Yelena actually winced.

"Aw," she teased. "Am I embarrassing you in front of your boyfriends, Lena?"

Blushing, Yelena pushed her companion away and laughed. ‘Neither of them ever had to deal with a Tigran in heat. Can’t you find some other way to let loose?’

Now it was Agathae who started blushing. Her whiskers rustled and a hiss emanated from her mouth that never failed to tickle Yelena. Agathae was nothing if not a contradiction in image: here was this warrior with probably the best senses in the entire monastery, resplendent in her light armored leathers and grey cloak, and yet she refused point blank to wear shoes – favoring the soft pads of her fluffy paws in order to maintain a stealthy approach in any combat encounter. She started pouting like she always did when she didn’t get her way. It was a reminder for Yelena: she was a warrior like the rest of them who shed blood on the snow-blasted battlefields outside, but there was still a girl in there.

Well, a cat-girl, but a girl nonetheless.

Presently her ears flicked up in irritation.

"Hmpf", she said. "Y’know, if you’re gonna be mean, I’m not gonna tell ya what I heard in the pantry yesterday."

Yelena pretended not to care, gathering up her sword and belongings and dusting off her cloak.

"You’ll tell me anyway," she said with a chuckle. "I always get your secrets out of you."

Agathae narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m just a sucker for your honeyed words, I guess. You always were good at cheering us on. Maybe that’s why Lord Jael impresses you so much?’

Yelena turned away to look back at the statue behind, and those all too human eyes staring down at her.

"He fought with the sword and with the tongue," she said, knowing the tale by heart. "He had a face that could convince even the most downtrodden pauper to follow him into the darkness of death and back again."

"Meh," Agathae. "I bet that tongue had other uses, too."

Yelena shot her an exasperated but good-natured stare.

"Finished?"

"Never," the feline said with a wink, before turning heel and walking off with a slow but deliberate swaying of her hips. "But if you don’t want to hear what I have to say, then I suppose my services are needed elsewhere…Such a shame too. It concerns your favorite snake-friend."

Yelena licked her lips and marched after her, grabbing her tail and yanking her back with all her might. Agathae fell back into her arms with grace and settled there, seemingly content.

"Alright," Yelena said with a spiteful grin. "Spill it."

Agathae yawned. "The rumors were true: Virtir’s been promoted. Now she’s head of The Vipers."

Yelena let the cat-woman fall, mid-yawn.

"Hey!"

"Uh, sorry," Yelena mumbled. "It’s just – it’s a surprise, that’s all."

That was putting it lightly. Not even Di could stop it?

Agathae peeked up from under her legs and tried to read her squad-mate’s deep blue eyes. The ocean in there was swirling with thoughts that she never could penetrate. It made the curious kitten soul inside her purr with envy, and with delight.

"It’ll be alright though, Lena," she said. "You’ve got us. She’ll probably try and make some bullshit claim against you today in front of everyone, now that she’s a captain. Just brush it off. No one’s gonna take her seriously. And if she tries anything, this kitten has claws. And she knows how ta use em’."

Yelena smiled back at her squad-mate’s positivity. It was something Agathae brought to the team, even in the darkest moments they’d shared on the battlefield.

"Virtir is a skilled warrior," Yelena said. "And she loves her team. That’ll make her a good captain. It doesn’t matter what she thinks about me."

Agathae sighed as she rolled over and leapt to her limber feet.

"You know, you could try being more of a bitch sometimes. It helps keep creeps and pretentious snakes away."

Yelena smiled. "Maybe you could teach me."

"Now, that’s more like it!" her companion replied. "Anyway, the old woman’s gonna start shouting about something soon. Might as well find out what the fuss is about downstairs. Coming?"

Yelena turned as though struck.

"The Prophet is stirring?" she asked. "There’s going to be a Wake?"

"Well, if you wanna be all official about it, I guess-"

"Why didn’t you lead with that, fur-brain?!"

"'Fur-brain?!'" Agathae spat back, like she was choking on a furball. "So excited over the old crone waking up? I guess it really is true then – you’re into older girls, aren’t you? I never stood a chance…"

"Agathae!"

The mischievous kitten giggled.

"Ready for a fight?" she asked. "Di’s itching for it. He wants to show that snake-bitch what us real warriors are made of. How ‘bout you, bookworm?"

Despite herself, Yelena’s self-doubt and fear were instantly channeled into the veins dancing on the surface of her sword hand. Her fingers twitched reflexively.

Ready for a fight? She needed one.

"Race ya, blondie." Agathae winked. "Last one there’s a rotten Voidspawn."

Yelena picked up her sword and made ready to leave, taking one last look at the two founders of the monastery that she had always called home.

"To challenge the Everloft…" she murmured, before following after the trail of the cat.

The eyes of both statues watched her go.